


Adore

by FinAmour



Series: 221(B)oyfriends [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Demisexual Sherlock, First Time, Fluff, Implied Jolto from the p a s t, Irene and Sherlock are besties, Love, M/M, Romantic Blowjobs are the best blowjobs, Sherlock doesn’t know what tools are, Smitten John, Smitten Sherlock, Vulnerable John, Vulnerable Sherlock, soft bois, the softest of bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: Sherlock always believed he knew about the finer things in life: the velvet aroma of a chateau mouton, the rich melody of a Stradivarius, the deep laid plans of a cunning killer.But nothing in the universe is finer than being kissed by John Watson.“He reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.” - Richard Siken
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: 221(B)oyfriends [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896241
Comments: 31
Kudos: 233





	Adore

Sherlock always believed he knew about the finer things in life: the velvet aroma of a chateau mouton, the rich melody of a Stradivarius, the deep laid plans of a cunning killer. 

But nothing in the universe is finer than being kissed by John Watson. 

An unanticipated discovery—one Sherlock became privy to only a month or so ago, when they decided kissing is something they ought to do.

Sherlock is far more hedonistic than he leads others to believe, and therefore intends to make up for this prior lack of knowledge—so he kisses John every chance he gets. He kisses John by the morning light, still groggy from slumber. He kisses John as he falls asleep, their bodies comfortably slotted together. He kisses John when celebrating major life accomplishments such as solving a case or donning trousers on a Sunday; he kisses John like the air he breathes. 

John is nothing if not a selfless and giving man. He kisses Sherlock with no reservations; he kisses Sherlock until their skin burns and their lips are tired. He kisses Sherlock until one of them is forced to leave their bed to eat or use the toilet or attend to other biological needs that can't be ignored. 

This evening, with the low light and hum of the television in the background, Sherlock kisses John on the sofa, legs pressed down on either side of his hips. John's fingers roam over his shirt, and he presses his lips to Sherlock's cool neck. 

"Boyfrieeeeend," Sherlock hums softly against his skin, because he knows John loves when he calls him that. "John." He kisses John's neck. "Watson." His jaw. "Is." His cheek. "My." The corner of his mouth. "Boyfriend." Lips. 

John laughs, because he knows Sherlock loves the feeling of his laughter beneath him. "Indeed." And he kisses him again, their noses softly bumping together. "Pretty sure I'm the luckiest man alive for it." 

Sherlock loves when John says things like this. Such simple words—and yet, words that make him feel happy, and warm, and extraordinarily loved. So he leans down, pressing their lips back together. His Mind Palace is already bursting with John's kisses, John's scent, John's touch—and he will continue to savour every sensation, even if it fills a thousand Mind Palaces.

But in a sudden moment, something on the television draws Sherlock's attention. 

"I love you," says the woman on the television who wears the funny hat. 

"I love you," replies the man with the woozy eyes. 

Sherlock finds it somewhat unsettling—and it occurs to him that he's never actually heard those three words from John's mouth. Not in that succession, anyway. Is this something that only happens in ridiculous movies, where the women wear funny hats and the men have woozy eyes? Or is it a common verbal exchange between lovers in real life? 

Sherlock knows that John loves him. He confessed his love to Sherlock with a succulent and a well thought-out letter. Not too long ago, the two of them stood on a rooftop at four in the morning, loudly proclaiming their love for one another to all who would listen—until an angry neighbour and the pouring rain forced them elsewhere. 

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"Yes." Sherlock doesn't realise he's stopped kissing John until he says his name. He leans back to look him in the eye, compelled to test his theory. "I was just thinking about how much I love you."

John's face lights up like a glowing ember. He smiles radiantly, pulling Sherlock back down to seal their mouths together.

It's good enough for now. 

***

Good evening, Woman. SH  
Sent✓

If John is my boyfriend, and he is, should he be saying the three very specific words that boyfriends say? SH  
Sent✓

Because he has never said them. SH  
Sent✓

_Incoming message from: The Woman_

Hello, darling.  
Recieved✓

What three words?  
Recieved✓

“Tie me up”?   
Recieved✓

What? No. SH  
Sent✓

I mean. He's never said those words, either. SH  
Sent✓

Oh. Pity.  
Received✓

Stop that! SH  
Sent✓  
  
He’s never said “I love you.” SH  
Sent✓

Well, that's certainly not uncommon. Those three words can be difficult to say.  
Received✓

But you know he loves you very much, right?  
Received✓

Yes. SH  
Sent✓

You're probably right. Perhaps he's just incapable of saying those words. Sort of like he's incapable of using common sense, or reaching objects on the top shelf of the cupboard. SH  
Sent✓

I think he'll say it. Just give it time.   
Received✓

Though he'll probably say those other three words first. 😘   
Received✓

Well, goodbye. SH  
Sent✓

***

The following afternoon, Sherlock is seated at the table, engaging in an experiment involving caulerpa lentillifera. John stands at the other end, deep in his own experiment involving an ancient box he refers to as an "overhead" "projector". 

"They found it in storage at the clinic," he explains as he twirls a handle with a metal shaft into the box. "Can you believe they were simply going to throw it out?"

Sherlock rises from his chair and walks over to get a closer look at the ancient box—which is caked with dust and cobwebs. "Yes." 

John shrugs. "I suppose it's a sentimental thing for me. Brings back some good memories of medical school. I'll need to purchase a new mirror and a couple of other things, but I thought it might be fun to fix it up." He continues to twirl the handle until a tiny metal fastener becomes loose and falls onto the table. 

Sherlock finds John's persistence—and his twirling—endearing. He wraps his arms around his waist, brushing a kiss to his neck. "No matter. It seems to make you happy, and I enjoy watching you do things that make you happy." 

John sets down the handle and turns to face him with a coy smile. "Oh? You like a man who knows how to use tools, hmm?" 

"I like _you_ ," Sherlock says without hesitation. "I love you." 

John's face lights up with the exact same joyful grin as the last time Sherlock said those words. He raises his head to look him in the eye. "And I, you." 

It's good enough for now. 

***

Irene thinks John can't say the words "I love you."

Irene is wrong.

This becomes quite obvious by John's conversation with his sister on the phone the next morning—which Sherlock can't help but overhear. 

"Right." he says into the phone. "Yes, Harry. Yes. I love you. Alright. I love you. Bye." 

Sherlock doesn't shift his eyes from his laptop as John makes his way over, leaning in and kissing him on the forehead. 

"Harry says hello." 

"Mmph," Sherlock grumbles, and John heads over to continue his experiment with his ancient box.

***

It's Monday morning, and John is running late for work. "I'm sorry," he says as he grabs his coat, quickly kissing Sherlock on the lips. "I've got to run." 

"Goodbye," Sherlock says. "I love you." 

John pauses, and his face does the stupid radiant thing again. "I am so in love with you,” he says before he turns to go. "I'll see you this evening—and I'll bring some dinner and some wine, alright?”

"Alright," Sherlock responds flatly.

He begins to wonder if it's actually good enough. 

***

That evening, as promised, John returns home with Italian food and cabernet. Sherlock enjoys the lasagne, but he thinks it would taste better if John said a certain three words; and not the ones Irene suggested. Though that certainly couldn't make the evening worse. 

"I've got something I'd like to show you," John says as he pours Sherlock a second glass of wine. 

"Oh?" Sherlock crosses his arms. He's too preoccupied with sulking to feign interest. 

And John is too clever to pretend he doesn't notice. "Although you’re sort of sexy when you pout like that—why don't you go switch on the overhead projector?" 

Sherlock scowls at him. "Why?" 

"There's a switch on the side. Go flip it on." 

Sherlock squints at him suspiciously, scoffs, and uncrosses his arms, finally rising from the sofa. "You're lucky you're very pretty," he informs him. 

"Yes, I know.”

Sherlock slowly makes his way to the projector, continuing to grumble just loud enough for John to hear it. He finds the switch and flips it on, flooding the adjacent wall with its light. 

The ancient box projects a message:

 _I love you._

As Sherlock reads it, his chest feels like it's on fire, but the good kind of fire. Like a fireplace on a cold winter day, or a bonfire made to roast marshmallows.

"Sherlock,” John says. “There’s something I want to say to you. Erm, out loud.”

Sherlock turns back to face him.

John pats at a spot on the sofa. "Join me?" 

In all his giddiness, Sherlock wants to leap onto the sofa and tackle John with kisses, but he restrains himself; simply bounding over the coffee table and down at John's side. 

"Impressive," John remarks. 

"I believe you were about to say something," Sherlock reminds him. 

"Yes." John takes him by the hands, eyes flitting downwards. "I'm sorry. I know you've been wanting to hear these words from me, and I wanted to say them sooner. It's my intention to ensure that you know every moment of every day how dear you are to me. I adore you, Sherlock. I am in awe of you, I cherish you, I am absolutely smitten by you. You are my best friend, my soulmate, and the love of my life."

"Mmm." Sherlock squirms apprehensively. 

John swallows. "But those three particular words have always been difficult for me to say to someone I’m in love with. I've said them only once before, to a friend I fell for in the Army, and that person ripped my heart out. And though I know you aren't them, and it's unfair to you, it doesn't erase the trauma."

Sherlock's heart clenches at John’s revelation. "I'm sorry, John," he says. "I should have assumed that you had a good reason not to—”

"I love you," John says, his voice soft but unwavering.

“Oh.” The words knock the air from Sherlock's lungs; they surge through his entire body, forming gooseflesh on his skin. "Was that...difficult?"

"Not at all. I think it might actually be the easiest thing I've ever said." 

Sherlock can't contain his bliss for another second; he takes John by the shoulders, finally wrestling him to the sofa, and climbs atop him, straddling his legs. 

"You're getting quite good at that." John lifts his eyebrows suggestively. "Should I ask you to tie me up?" 

Sherlock groans. "Irene needs to delete your number." 

But then John laughs, and Sherlock forgets to be irate. Instead, he lets his body sink down, melting into John's. "Say it again," he whispers. 

"I love you," John whispers back. 

A low moan escapes Sherlock's lips, unbidden—and his hips surge forward involuntarily. "Oh," he breathes, astonished by his sudden state of arousal.

He quite enjoys being physically affectionate with John—but they both know that sexual urges are not entirely common for him.

"Hmm?" John lifts an eyebrow, and Sherlock rolls his hips forwards emphatically in demonstration.

John's breath hitches. _"Oh."_ He rolls his hips in an echoing motion. It's not rare for John to be aroused, of course. John is aroused nearly one hundred percent of the time. 

Sherlock forces himself to breathe. "Say it again."

"What? ‘Oh’?"

"No!" Sherlock hisses. "The other thing! Quickly, now, before it goes away." 

"Sorry, sorry," John chuckles as he leans forwards, brushing their lips together. "Sherlock," he says reverently. "I love you." 

Sherlock moans softly, chills pouring over his body. “Again.”

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

Sherlock clutches to him tightly; with each iteration, his hips continue rutting into his with a steady rhythm. 

Before he can ask again, John pulls him in, smearing his mouth with a raw, passionate kiss. He goes on, alternating between kisses and love confessions, and Sherlock grows helpless to his words. And there may be words coming from his mouth as well, but those words are incomprehensible.

He no longer has control of his body, shivering with ecstasy, clinging to John with all he has. When he grows so aroused that it physically aches, he finds himself torn between begging John to continue and begging him for mercy. 

"John,” he utters, desperately hoping John can figure it out for him. 

He does. 

"Turn over," John responds, sliding out from beneath him. 

Sherlock shifts his body to a seated position, his back against the sofa, legs spread out in front of him. His head falls back, eyes drifting shut, and he drinks in every part of this moment that he can.

John is on the floor, his fingers wandering to the hem of Sherlock’s trousers; he unbuttons them, pulling at them until he's naked from the waist down.

"Christ," John murmurs. "You're beautiful." He spreads Sherlock’s legs apart gently, tucking his arms beneath his thighs. "You alright, love?"

"Yes." Sherlock’s body arches upwards in apprehension. “Please, don't stop.” Whatever John chooses to do, he wants it, and he wants it very, very bad.

And then, John's soft, wet lips are on his sensitive flesh, and all remaining senses are lost. 

John kisses him there slowly. He kisses him there not quite as slowly. And then his lips are around him, and then his mouth is around him, enveloping him in its velvety warmth. And his tongue joins in—oh, god, his brilliant tongue—and they all work in unison to take Sherlock apart completely. 

Sherlock can't even hope to catalogue the sensation of John's mouth on him; it’s far too overwhelming. So he simply allows it to happen, praying that he will have another chance to feel it, again, and again, and again.

"Say it one more time," Sherlock begs. 

"I love you, Sherlock."

A fierce warmth tugs at Sherlock's lower abdomen; he clenches his eyes and releases a low, guttural cry. He goes stiff, his heart leaps into his throat, and his lower body pulsates so strongly that he thinks he might go numb.   
  
But he continues to feel. To feel John, to smell John, to hear John’s own moans of arousal—until he’s wrung himself dry.

It's the most superb thing he's ever experienced.

After he's completely spent, he collapses back onto the sofa. John finds the space to curl up next to him, kissing his sweaty forehead, and he nestles his own head onto Sherlock's chest. 

And that's when Sherlock realises he was wrong: 

Because he thought that kissing John Watson is finest thing in life. It's not.

Nor are the three words he longed for John to say; nor the feeling of being in John’s perfect mouth. 

The finest thing in the universe is John Watson himself.   
  
So before Sherlock dozes off, he tells John again that he loves him. And this time, John says it right back. 


End file.
